Friday, February 3, 2012


Get some rest, son
This life is a tired old whore
We run ourselves
Risk our souls
Drag our shells through
rotten alleys

It is never not to dwell
A hung head is a thing of
beauty  In a world of
addictions  Each a cough
and a choke
and a "How do you don't"

They will say slants
A roof a precipice
Balance just right  an impossible
"It will be better next time" they will say
But you will always know
That they are full of shit

1 comment:

  1. I had just gotten hip to this zine and the gentleman's corpus of work. I don't know any details - none of my business, naturally - but as someone who struggles with depression ebbing in and out of self-destructive conspiracies, I feel for the young man and fear the example of a rising good egg brought low by whichever hordes of myriad globetrotting demons pushed him out of his work and out of our world. RIP.